She started past him; he caught her arm, stopping her. "Why do you think the killer stuffed a bra in her

mouth? The symbolism is striking, don't you think? How many b.o.o.b jobs do you think he's done? Five

hundred? A thousand? "We've got two murders," he continued. "Both victims connected to Ian Westbrook. Tanner here was murdered not even twenty-four hours after we spoke with her, before we had a chance to question her again. Vanmeer was a patient of his and according to her ex, his lover as well. The guy from the elevator at La Plaza, Mr. Braves cap, has the same build as Westbrook."

"Everything we've got is circ.u.mstantial," she argued back. "Big time. General build and coloring? Come on, that's worse than weak. Besides," she added, "he's got an alibi for the night of Van-meer's murder."

"But his wife's his alibi, which makes it less than ironclad. Wouldn't she say or do anything to protect him?"

Stacy opened her mouth to deny it, to argue that Jane would never obstruct justice, then swallowed the words. Jane loved Ian so deeply, so completely, she would fight his innocence until the end.

But would she lie for him?

He leaned toward her. "As you know, cases have been made, and won, on circ.u.mstantial."

"What about motive, Mac? You got that figured out, too?"

"Yeah. One as old as time. Money. Your sister's a very rich woman. How do you think she'd feel if she discovered he was unfaithful to her?"

Stacy saw where he was leading. Ian was having an affair with Elle Vanmeer. The woman had threatened to go to Jane; he'd killed her to keep her quiet. Then, when he'd become a suspect, he'd killed the one person who knew his comings and goings and could absolutely corroborate his affair. His office manager.

Stacy felt ill. It all made sense.

But it couldn't be true.

Mac made a sound of disgust. "I think you'd better face the facts, Stacy. Your brother-in-law is hip deep in s.h.i.t right now. And unless something dramatic happens, its only going to get deeper."

NINETEEN.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003.

3:30 p.m.

Jane paced her living room, hair wet from the shower, skin still tingling from the hot spray. The moment she had gotten home, she had run to the bathroom. Without even waiting for the water to heat up, she had ripped off her clothes and stepped in-desperate to cleanse herself of the smell of death. The memory of it.

Though the soap and shampoo had washed away the odor, the memory haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the woman, face purple in death, mouth stretched obscenely to accommodate what she now knew had been a bra.

Jane brought her trembling hands to her face. She felt ill. Agitated. At once like sobbing and swearing. Crying for Marsha, her end. Cursing a world where one human being could commit such a heinous act against another.

Ranger growled, low in his throat. Jane looked his way. He watched her, the hair along the ridge of his back raised. She wasn't certain if he sensed her distress or smelled death.

Jane pressed her lips together, thinking again of Marsha's dog. Ted had offered to keep the Pomeranian until a permanent home could be found for her. She had been grateful, she knew her a.s.sistant would take good care of the animal.

Ian had gone back to the office to cancel his appointments for the next few days. He had hated to leave her, had made Ted promise to check on her. He had been shaken. Confused. Marsha was dead. Murdered. The police, including Stacy, seemed to think he had something to do with it.

It was crazy. Insane. Jane brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her senses filled: with the sound of the dog clawing at the door, the smell of death, the taste of her own vomit.

She dropped her hands. Ian had nothing to do with this. He wasn't capable of such an act. Stacy knew that. Why hadn't she told her partner? How could she have allowed the man to speak to Ian that way?

The front buzzer sounded. Jane went to the front window, eased aside the drape and peered down at the

street. Her sister's Bronco was parked at the curb, in the fire lane.

Jane began to tremble. Her first instinct was to hide. Pretend she wasn't here, or that she was asleep. Her next was to fight. To respond to the anger that even now surged through her. Anger that the police had treated Ian like a criminal, that Stacy had allowed them to do it.

Jane crossed to the intercom and answered it. "Yes?"

"Jane, it's Stacy."

"Don't you mean Detective Killian?"

"I suppose I deserve that."

"No suppose about it. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you. Can I come up?"

"I don't think so."

"I'm on your side. I'm on Ian's side." She lowered her voice. "It's important, Jane."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

Without replying, Jane hit the buzzer, then headed for the door.

She met her sister on the first landing. Her sister looked tired. She bent and petted Ranger, then

straightened and met Jane's eyes. She read apology in her gaze. Regret. But for what. The past? Or what was to come?

"I wanted to check on you. How are you holding together?"

"About as well as possible." Jane folded her arms across her chest. "Considering."

"How's your head?"

Jane touched her forehead, the big bandage the EMT had placed over the cut. "It hurts. But not as much as-" She didn't finish the thought. It landed, unspoken, between them, anyway.

As much as having found Marsha that way.

"I'm sorry you had to...see that. I know how brutal the first time is. I got sick. Embarra.s.sed myself in front of the entire crime-scene crew."

Jane's anger dimmed. It was a side of her feelings Stacy had never revealed before. She motioned her

inside.

They climbed the last few stairs and entered the foyer. Jane led her to the kitchen. "Coffee?" she asked.

"Iced tea?"

"Nothing. Thanks." Stacy motioned to the chairs grouped around the kitchen table. "Why don't you sit?"

"I don't think so." She tilted her chin up. "Who are you here as, Stacy? My sister? Or a cop?"

"Maybe both."

"That's not possible."

"It's the best I can do. I'm a cop, Jane. It's not just what I do, but what I am. I can't separate myself from

the job. But that doesn't mean I'm not worried about you. About the...baby. And worried about Ian.

Really worried about Ian."

Jane stared at her a moment, her world seeming to shift slightly. "I think I will sit down."

They both sat, Stacy swinging her chair to face her sister's. "I have to ask you a few questions, Jane."

"About Ian?"

"Yes."

Jane gripped the chair's arms. "Go ahead."

"Are you absolutely certain he was home Sunday night?"

The night Elle Vanmeer was murdered. Fear snaked up her spine, leaving a chill in its wake. "Yes.

Absolutely."